


Distant Dreams and Dead Things

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Category: Silent Hill, Silent Hill 4: The Room
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cynthia moves into a new apartment and it looks like everything’s finally going up.  She’s got two steady jobs, a bigger place, and its right next door to a cute waitress’s apartment.  For once, all seems to be well.  </p>
<p>That’s when the dreams start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant Dreams and Dead Things

The dreams began when she moved into the new apartment.

Cynthia wasn’t a dreamer usually. Something to do with the lack of sleep probably, how every night had her awake working till early morning, woozily making her way home to crash and catch a few z’s until she had to work her day job. Exhaustion didn’t lend itself well to dreaming; and yet...

 

He was coming. There was no where she could go; no place to hide, and that realization sinking into her only made the panic rise. Panting as she bolted through the subway station, lights flickering above her with every click of her heels, Cynthia regretted everything, every chance untaken, every wish unfulfilled, the life that was to about to be cut short.

In a last ditch effort, she ducked into the ticket booth and knelt on the floor, hyperventilating as his even footsteps hit her ears. Maybe he’d keep walking. Maybe he’d think she’d run through the turnstile –

The doorknob turned.

 

She always woke up then, just as the mystery stalker started to enter the room, as the terror reached its peak and she felt her chest would burst from the pressure. Gripping the bed sheets tight, Cynthia sat up and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the images from her mind.

Just a dream, just a dream…

But it felt so real.

 

Cynthia Velasquez wanted a lot of things.

She wanted a better job – no, that wasn’t quite right. She wanted the jobs she had to be better, for the hours put in and the wages earned to equal out, for the patrons she served to stop being assholes, for her boss to remove the stick from his ass. She wanted to stop wearing herself to the bone for minimum wage working an obscene amount of hours each week and still being only just able to pay for the rent for her apartment.

She wanted a better place. The apartment she’d been living in was a shithole with pee-stained carpet, made worse by the lovely landlord who saw fit to comment on her dress and her life whenever she paid him. 

She wanted to own her own car, to own a TV that wasn’t ten years old, to be able to afford food that didn’t taste like three day old ass.

Mostly, she wanted to be less alone.

Well, there was only so much she could afford to do to achieve those things she wanted; money was tight, and there was nobody looking to help lighten her load. So when she found an ad in the paper for an apartment twice as big as the one she had, not that far from where she worked, for half the price of the apartment she currently had, she jumped on it.

She should’ve known there’d be a catch.

 

The dreams where always the same: running for her life in an abandoned subway station, an unseen stranger just on her heels and it always ended with the squeaky turn of the doorknob.

She almost wanted more to happen, just to change it up. On the other hand… the idea of discovery how the scenario ended did more than chill her bones and decimate whatever appetite she’d previously had; it ruined her, stole the strength from her muscles and made her eyes wet.

It was as if a part of her already knew how it ended, and she never wanted to remember.

 

Still, the apartment wasn’t all bad.

It was the second room on the third floor, right next to the apartment owned by Eileen Galvin, a woman her age who worked as a waitress at the local coffee shop. Cynthia had seen her around; sometimes, after a long day serving chicken wings to assholes in trucker hats, or a night carrying drinks from the bar too wound up to go home and sleep, Cynthia would walk to the shop for a snack. 

Maybe it was creepy that Cynthia knew Eileen worked Monday thru Thursday nights, and all day on the weekends, but it wasn’t as if she’d actively tried to find out. Habitually visiting the place had taught her the woman’s schedule; she’d simply remembered it. And if she chose to visit the shop those times Eileen worked, well… was it so bad to have a favorite waitress?

“Here you go.” Eileen plopped the bowl down in front of her. “Sausage gumbo, nice and hot, and I mean hot in every sense of the word.”

The woman smiled, and Cynthia couldn’t not smile back. “Just how I like it.” Eileen giggled and Cynthia’s smile grew. “Thanks.”

“So… you work around here?” Cynthia glanced back up, spoon halfway to her mouth, and her expectant gaze must’ve made Eileen nervous, as she blushed and glanced away. “I just… I only wondered…”

“Actually, I live down the street.” Cynthia explained, setting the spoon back into the bowl. 

“Oh?” 

The woman nodded. “Ashfield Apartments.”

Eileen expression burst to life, her face glowing with recognition and an easy joy Cynthia both envied and admired. “Ashfield? That’s where I live!”

Cynthia’s smile faltered, and she gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah, I – I know. My apartment’s right next to yours.”

Eileen’s mouth went slack. She gave a quick glance around the room, saw how empty it was, then sat across from Cynthia and set her tray on the table. “Oh, wow, I feel really dense now, I – I’ve never seen you around.”

Cynthia shrugged, eyes falling to the table. “That’s not surprising. I’m not home alot.”

Eileen’s eyes narrowed sympathetically. “Long days, late nights?”

“Oh, yeah.” Cynthia took a sip of her water. “I’m a Hooters girl, and I’m a waitress at the club downtown.” Ashfield was small enough that no clarification was needed. There was only one club, a place called Aphrodite’s, and in fact, the club and its parking lot made up most of the supposed ‘downtown’.

“How is it?”

“Like pulling teeth.” She revealed in a moment of candid truth that took Cynthia by surprise. “I mean…”

Eileen laughed and held up a hand. “No, I get it. I can’t imagine how much fun it is serving beers to horny college kids.”

Surprised, Cynthia smirked and gave a slow nod. “Yeah, loads of fun.”

Their inane conversation was only allowed for another five minutes or so; “Duty calls,” Eileen had whispered, hesitating to stand; her interlocked fingers tightening and touching down on the table, before slowly releasing one another and pushing off the countertop. Cynthia had watched her go, an amalgam of joy and regret twisting her insides. She’d finally gotten the chance to talk to the woman she’d been crushing on for ages! But with that exciting thought came the fear that it might never happen again, or that it wouldn’t go the way Cynthia hoped it would.

Roiling with the tumultuous feelings, Cynthia dug into her soup, which was no longer quite as hot as Eileen had said.

 

All the doors were locked, all the lights were off. There was nowhere to hide.

Gasping for breath, Cynthia started running again, fumbling in her heels as she took off down the stairs two at a time. Behind her, his stable gait taunted her: step… step… step… Sobbing, Cynthia raced towards the ticket booth. Maybe he wouldn’t think to look there, maybe he’d pass her by… she shut the door behind her and fell to the ground, shaky hands running through her hair and pulling tight, curling up into a barely breathing ball against the wall. 

The doorknob turned.

 

Cynthia’s every-week-or-so routine became a nightly one.

Every night after work (or days, when she could), Cynthia would stop by the coffee shop and get a little something to eat; nothing major, just enough for an excuse to bask in Eileen’s presence for fifteen minutes or so. Eileen seemed to like it. No matter how busy the shop was, she’d always make time to talk to Cynthia.

What they talked about ranged from the mundane to the abstract, from what kind of music each listened to, to their thoughts on God, Heaven, and Hell. It was always a quick, talk then dash sort of thing; being clocked in didn’t lend itself well to chatter. But it was nice to have somebody to talk to, even for just a few minutes… especially since that somebody was cute.

Cynthia had been thinking about Eileen when she bumped into a guy at the bar, almost knocking the tray in her hand over. Quick reflexes and lots of experience with the balancing act of drink serving kept her from dropping it all. 

“Hey, watch it!” The drunk who’d practically fallen into her did a woozy spin around to face her, eyes half closed. A wonky smile came over his face once he saw her. “Why, hello, dolly,”

Cynthia felt a headache coming on. Giving the patron a terse smile, she spun on her heel and made to get away. A hand on her elbow stopped her, and if it weren’t for the (expensive) drinks she was holding, she might’ve snapped his wrist right then.

“What’s the rush, pretty thing?” The man leaned into her neck, his sweaty palm slipping against her skin. “I don’t even know your name yet.”

And you never will. It sickened her to think of playing nice with the guy, but she needed her job. She turned to politely tell him to back the fuck off, when the world inverted.

Hands gripping her; a man’s heavy, intimidating presence behind her, pressing too close, breathing against her ear; something sharp, a knife maybe – piercing hot lines running down her skin, the knife carving into her again, and again, and again –

Cynthia fell to her knees and threw up on the guy’s shoes, and only distantly heard glass shattering as her tray toppled to the ground. Trembling arms drawn tight around herself, she heaved, feeling her stomach protest as she tried and failed to call up more.

Arms came around her shoulders and gently pulled her up and away; Cynthia hardly noticed. She could see his formidable bulk leaning over her, his heavy palms dictating her movements, pulling her arms up and under his gaze, the glint of the knife as he decided where next to leave his mark. 

Cynthia lost all strength then, shuddering as she slumped into whoever was holding her, and fell into darkness.

 

When she came to, Eileen’s face was the first thing she saw.

“Okay, this is getting a little creepy,” Cynthia murmured, blinking her eyes slowly as she raised a hand to them. “Having a crush is one thing, dreaming about somebody is a little obsessive.”

“You have a crush on me?”

Reality was settling in; Cynthia’s heart quaked in her chest. She leapt up, and it must’ve surprised Eileen because the other woman gave a little jolt. “You – you’re actually here?”

“I came to Aphrodite’s to see you,” Eileen admitted with a half-shrug. “I figured, you were always going out of your way to come visit, I could do the same.”

“Oh,” To Cynthia’s pounding heartbeat, nausea was soon added. “Which means you saw my stupid meltdown.”

“If you mean that guy being a total asshole, and you getting sick, then yes. Are you feeling any better?”

Cynthia started to nod, but the movement made her woozy. “A little. I’ll be up and at ‘em in no time.” Whether or not she felt like it; work was not going to wait on her. “What time is it?”

“Ten thirty.”

“Ten - !” Cynthia made to jump from bed, only to stumble even as Eileen followed and gently pushed her back down.

“Hey, cool your jets. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.”

“I’ve got – work…” Pressing a sweaty hand to her forehead Cynthia fought the icky drunk feeling and the panic clawing its way up her throat. “I can’t miss, I need this job.”

“Well, if you tell me the number, I can call your boss and explain what happened.”

“But –“

“No buts.” Standing, Eileen put her hands on her hips. “You need your rest. So what’s that number?”

Cynthia, in her weakened state, really couldn’t fight Eileen’s adorably adamant pout. So she gave the number up, collapsed back into the bed, and was out in an instant.

 

The woman was running, hindered by her dress, the stilettos and skin tight purple outfit. Panic was clear by her face, the wide horrified eyes, the open, gasping mouth. The woman ran, and she chased, crawling across the floor like a beast, peering after her pray through a veil of black hair…

Cynthia woke covered in sweat, hands clenched tight to her chest as if to defend herself. Terror clawing at her insides, she forced herself up, barely able to move. Her limbs were stiff and sore, her chest burning; when she was sitting up fully, a brush of hair came over her face and she jolted, shoving it out of her eyes promptly.

“Cynthia? Cynthia, are you all right?”

She was back in her apartment, in bed; not in a subway station, not a… a fucked up ghost haunting innocent people. Wiping her watery eyes, Cynthia forced herself out of bed.

“Y – Yeah, I’m fine.”

Eileen had been keeping up with Cynthia, checking in on her for the past few days. It was really sweet of her, though it made Cynthia feel bad that the woman was being forced to babysit her. 

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.” 

The door cracked open; Eileen peered through, before stepping fully into the room. She was in a green and white tank top with jeans, and her eyes were narrowed in sympathy.

“Bad dreams again?”

Cynthia had spoken a little of the dreams with Eileen; but not much, and she certainly wouldn’t now that the other woman was the star of them, and Cynthia had become the stalker-murderer of her nightmares. “It’s fine, it’ll pass.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No!” Cynthia’s hands popped up. “I mean, no thanks. I just… I’d rather not.”

Though she looked a little taken aback, Eileen nodded. “Okay. Though, if you change your…” The woman’s voice trailed off. It took a moment for Cynthia to notice, but when she did, she looked up and met Eileen’s shocked gaze.

“What is it?”

“Have you always had that?”

Cynthia followed Eileen’s gaze down, to where her sleep shirt had sunk a little low. Upon the skin of her breast, carved as if with a knife, were the numbers: 16121. The numbers he’d made with his knife, smiling as she screamed, the marks he’d left in the dreams, oh god –

“Oh god!” Leaping to her feet, Cynthia stumbled away into the bathroom, turning her terrified gaze upon the scar’s reflection in the mirror. She touched them; the marks were raised and scabbed over, they were real - “No, no, no, NO!”

 

Cynthia tried to forget about the dreams, after that. When she had them, which was every night, she’d wake and put them from her mind, refusing to even acknowledge their existence. She went to work, lost herself in the routine, then went home and crashed.

Those mediocre times were interrupted only by Eileen’s company. They’d taken to meeting at her apartment every few days for a chat and some lunch. Sometimes they’d watch TV and gossip about the actors, comment on their attractiveness or physique, and laugh at the inane plots. Sometimes they’d get a little drunk and mess around, but thus far the messing hadn’t gone past the beer bottle. They hadn’t really talked about what they were, what they had (if anything) between them. Eileen never seemed to bring it up, and Cynthia was too nervous to do so herself.

Still, as long as she didn’t think about the dreams, life seemed okay.

When Aphrodite’s was busy, it became easy not to think. It was another late night at the club and Cynthia was too rushed taking orders and delivery them to remember the horror, the blood beneath her nails, the gritty concrete as she crawled. Cynthia maneuvered through aisles and around tables, two trays held up above the patron’s heads. She came to a crowded booth and began setting drinks down.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Trust me, it’s real.” One of the men replied as he picked up his drink. “Allen was talking to this trucker down at the Waffle House, and he saw it.”

“This is one of those ‘a friend of a friend’ things, isn’t it?” Another laughed. “You can’t take this serious.”

“This guy was wigging.” The first continued to insist, telling his story with excited hand motions. “Screaming about monsters without eyes out in the fog, sirens and beasts –“

Cynthia’s hands went loose, the drink in her palm crashing to the floor and shocking the group of partiers. Paling, Cynthia fell to the ground and pulled a towel from her waist. “God, I am so sorry.”

The rest of the night was a dull blur, but those words never left her mind.

Monsters without eyes, sirens and beasts… sirens and beasts…

 

“So how was work?”

Eileen was at her couch, watching TV as Cynthia stepped through the door, slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. Taking a second look, Eileen’s eyes widened and she stood. “Hey, you all right?”

“Just… tired.” Rubbing a hand over her head, Cynthia stepped into Eileen’s open embrace and let the other woman guide her to the couch. “I had a weird moment today at the club.”

“Anything like your weird moment with that guy and you fainting?”

“Sort’ve, just not as bad.” They both sat on the couch together, Eileen’s arm coming around Cynthia’s shoulder. “Took me off guard.”

“What would make it better?” Eileen’s fingers brushed through her bangs almost absentmindedly, and at every light brush of her fingertips against Cynthia’s skin, the woman shivered. 

“Let’s just watch something brainless and relax.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Eileen smiled. They curled into each other, and Cynthia’s heartbeat skyrocketed at the easy way they fit, two people into one. They remained that way for a while.

“So, uh, I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous.” Cynthia mumbled. Eileen gave a half-hearted chuckle, the nervousness practically permeating the air.

“Yeah, well… I just thought, we’re both working so hard and paying rent by ourselves. We’re friends, anyway… right? I just thought… maybe we could move in together?”

As soon as the question was asked, Cynthia found herself wondering why she hadn’t thought to ask it long before.

“Hell yeah!” Sitting up, Cynthia’s delighted eyes met Eileen’s relieved ones. “But – can we please move in here?” Not 302, never 302, not again…

“Uh, yeah, sure. If that’s what you want.”

She’d never wanted anything more.

 

They moved her things into 301 as soon as they had the chance… and the dreams stopped.

Cynthia still worked long hours, and Eileen too, and between their schedules there wasn’t much time for socializing. They shared a bed, but had yet to do anything besides sleep in it. They’d talked a little, about what they were doing together; and mostly that talk became action, the clashing of teeth and trading of saliva.

They had meals together, when they could, bought a used car together, took turns cooking and watched their favorite shows in long weekend marathons. It all seemed perfect.

Then she had one last dream.

 

Cynthia was dead; torn to pieces, the blood pouring from wound after wound, she bled to death in a stranger’s arms, crying and mourning her lost chances. That strange young man, the pale skinned recluse with shaggy brown hair, went on to face the monster that killed her, to save Eileen… and they lived, they went off into the sunrise together, the two of them, leaving Cynthia’s corpse behind… Eileen’s smile, that beautiful smile she had whenever they laughed together, aimed at that stranger…

Cynthia woke more peacefully than before; her eyes snapped open, and the realization of the barrier between reality and dream settled. She turned, caught sight of Eileen asleep beside her, hair fanned out on her pillow. Slowly, Cynthia lifted a hand to brush it through that hair, and as she did, sleepy eyes opened, and Eileen turned into Cynthia’s hand.

“Good morning.” She smiled, but when she opened her eyes her look became serious. “Where you dreaming again?”

“Yes, but…” It had been so different, just as vivid and disturbing but the mood so variant; and yet somehow it had been even more upsetting than the others. “it was different.”

“Bad different?”

“I… yeah.” Sitting up, Cynthia put a hand to her forehead, and Eileen followed her up, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Well, maybe not. It wasn’t… gross or bloody like before, but that somehow made it worse.”

“How so?”

“I was dead.” Her voice caught on the word. “Not a monster like before, just… dead. You lived, though. You and this strange white guy who lived in 302 instead of me. You both made it out’ve hell and rode off into the sunset together.” Cynthia turned to face Eileen quickly, talking just a bit too fast. “And these dreams, they – they seem so real, like I saw them before. Like they happened. I can’t help but wonder – what if they were supposed to happen? What if you’re meant to be with that guy, and I’m supposed to be –“

Eileen’s hand moved to cup Cynthia’s jaw firmly. “Screw supposed to.” Her look softened once she saw she had Cynthia’s attention. “I don’t care about the spectres from dreams, or the way some other life, imaginary or not, went. This is what I want. You are who I want.”

Cynthia just barely kept from letting out a sob. “You – you mean that?”

“Y – Yeah, I do.” The woman blushed. “I know we haven’t talked a lot about this… thing, between us, but it means something to me. A lot of something.” Half lidded eyes lifted to met her gaze. “And… you?”

“Yeah.” Mouth dry, Cynthia fought to form words. “Yeah, it means a hell of a lot to me.”

“Good.” Eileen let her hand move from Cynthia’s jaw, up into her hair, caressing her. “No more doubts, okay?”

Cynthia returned her smile. “Okay.”

 

The dreams stopped.


End file.
